Oread
Whirl
up, sea—
whirl
your pointed pines,
splash
your great pines
on our
rocks,
hurl
your green over us,
cover us
with your pools of fir.
Sitalkas
Thou art
come at length
More
beautiful
Than any
cool god
In a
chamber under
Lycia's
far coast,
Than any
high god
Who
touches us not
Here in
the seeded grass.
Aye,
than Argestes
Scattering
the broken leaves.
Heat
O wind,
rend open the heat,
cut
apart the heat,
rend it
to tatters.
Fruit
cannot drop
through
this thick air—
fruit
cannot fall into heat
that
presses up and blunts
the
points of pears
and
rounds the grapes.
Cut the
heat—
plough
through it,
turning
it on either side
of your
path.
Mid-Day
The
light beats upon me.
I am
startled-
a split
leaf crackles on the paved floor-
I am
anguished-defeated.
A slight
wind shakes the seed-pods-
my
thoughts are spent
as the
black seeds.
My
thoughts tear me,
I dread
their fever.
I am
scattered in its whirl.
I am
scattered like
the hot
shrivelled seeds.
The
shrivelled seeds
are
spilt on the path-
the
grass bends with dust,
the
grape slips
under
its crackled leaf:
yet far
beyond the spent seed-pods,
and the
blackened stalks of mint,
the
poplar is bright on the hill,
the
poplar spreads out,
deep-rooted
among trees.
O
poplar, you are great
among
the hill-stones,
while I
perish on the path
among
the crevices of the rocks.
Storm
I
You
crash over the trees,
you
crack the live branch:
the
branch is white,
the
green crushed,
each
leaf is rent like split wood.
II
You
burden the trees
with
black drops,
you
swirl and crash:
you have
broken off a weighted leaf
in the
wind—
it is
hurled out,
whirls
up and sinks,
a green
stone.
Song
You are as gold
as the
half-ripe grain
that
merges to gold again,
as white
as the white rain
that
beats through
the
half-opened flowers
of the
great flower tufts
thick on
the black limbs
of an
Illyrian apple bough.
Can honey
distill such fragrance
as your
bright hair-
for your
face is as fair as rain,
yet as
rain that lies clear
on white
honey-comb,
lends
radiance to the white wax,
so your
hair on your brow
casts
light for a shadow.
Lethe
Nor skin nor hide nor fleece
Shall
cover you,
Nor
curtain of crimson nor fine
Shelter
of cedar-wood be over you,
Nor the
fir-tree
Nor the
pine.
Nor
sight of whin nor gorse
Nor
river-yew,
Nor
fragrance of flowering bush,
Nor
wailing of reed-bird to waken you,
Nor of
linnet,
Nor of
thrush.
Nor word
nor touch nor sight
Of
lover, you
Shall
long through the night but for this:
The roll
of the full tide to cover you
Without
question,
Without
kiss.
Hermes
of the Ways
I
The hard
sand breaks,
And the
grains of it
Are
clear as wine.
Far off
over the leagues of it,
The
wind,
Playing
on the wide shore,
Piles
little ridges,
And the
great waves
Break
over it.
But more
than the many-foamed ways
Of the
sea,
I know
him
Of the
triple path-ways,
Hermes,
Who
awaiteth.
Dubious,
Facing
three ways,
Welcoming
wayfarers,
He whom
the sea-orchard
Shelters
from the west,
From the
east
Weathers
sea-wind;
Fronts
the great dunes.
Wind
rushes
Over the
dunes,
And the
coarse, salt-crusted grass
Answers.
Heu,
It whips
round my ankles!
II
Small is
This white
stream,
Flowing
below ground
From the
poplar-shaded hill,
But the
water is sweet.
Apples
on the small trees
Are
hard,
Too
small,
Too late
ripened
By a
desperate sun
That
struggles through sea-mist.
The
boughs of the trees
Are
twisted
By many
bafflings;
Twisted
are
The
small-leafed boughs.
But the
shadow of them
Is not
the shadow of the mast head
Nor of
the torn sails.
Hermes,
Hermes,
The
great sea foamed,
Gnashed
its teeth about me;
But you
have waited,
Where
sea-grass tangles with
Shore-grass.
Sea Poppies
Amber
husk
fluted
with gold,
fruit on
the sand
marked
with a rich grain,
treasure
spilled
near the shrub-pines
to
bleach on the boulders:
your
stalk has caught root
among
wet pebbles
and
drift flung by the sea
and
grated shells
and
split conch-shells.
Beautiful,
wide-spread,
fire
upon leaf,
what
meadow yields
so
fragrant a leaf
as your
bright leaf?
Sea Rose
Rose,
harsh rose,
marred
and with stint of petals,
meagre
flower, thin,
sparse
of leaf,
more
precious
than a
wet rose
single on
a stem—
you are
caught in the drift.
Stunted,
with small leaf,
you are
flung on the sand,
you are
lifted
in the
crisp sand
that
drives in the wind.
Can the
spice-rose
drip
such acrid fragrance
hardened
in a leaf?
Sea Iris
I
Weed,
moss-weed,
root tangled
in sand,
sea-iris,
brittle flower,
one
petal like a shell
is
broken,
and you
print a shadow
like a
thin twig.
Fortunate
one,
scented
and stinging,
rigid
myrrh-bud,
camphor-flower,
sweet
and salt—you are wind
in our
nostrils.
II
Do the
murex-fishers
drench
you as they pass?
Do your
roots drag up colour
from the
sand?
Have
they slipped gold under you—
rivets
of gold?
Band of
iris-flowers
above
the waves,
you are
painted blue,
painted
like a fresh prow
stained
among the salt weeds.
Sheltered
Garden
I have
had enough.
I gasp
for breath.
Every
way ends, every road,
every
foot-path leads at last
to the
hill-crest—
then you
retrace your steps,
or find
the same slope on the other side,
precipitate.
I have
had enough—
border-pinks,
clove-pinks, wax-lilies,
herbs,
sweet-cress.
O for
some sharp swish of a branch—
there is
no scent of resin
in this
place,
no taste
of bark, of coarse weeds,
aromatic,
astringent—
only
border on border of scented pinks.
Have you
seen fruit under cover
that
wanted light—
pears
wadded in cloth,
protected
from the frost,
melons,
almost ripe,
smothered
in straw?
Why not
let the pears cling
to the
empty branch?
All your
coaxing will only make
a bitter
fruit—
let them
cling, ripen of themselves,
test
their own worth,
nipped,
shrivelled by the frost,
to fall
at last but fair
with a
russet coat.
Or the
melon—
let it
bleach yellow
in the
winter light,
even
tart to the taste—
it is
better to taste of frost—
the
exquisite frost—
than of
wadding and of dead grass.
For this
beauty,
beauty
without strength,
chokes
out life.
I want
wind to break,
scatter
these pink-stalks,
snap off
their spiced heads,
fling
them about with dead leaves—
spread
the paths with twigs,
limbs
broken off,
trail
great pine branches,
hurled
from some far wood
right
across the melon-patch,
break
pear and quince—
leave
half-trees, torn, twisted
but
showing the fight was valiant.
O to
blot out this garden
to
forget, to find a new beauty
in some
terrible
wind-tortured
place.
Pursuit
What do
I care
that the
stream is trampled,
the sand
on the stream-bank
still
holds the print of your foot:
the heel
is cut deep.
I see
another mark
on the
grass ridge of the bank—
it
points toward the wood-path.
I have
lost the third
in the
packed earth.
But here
a
wild-hyacinth stalk is snapped:
the
purple buds—half ripe—
show
deep purple
where
your heel pressed.
A patch
of flowering grass,
low,
trailing—
you
brushed this:
the
green stems show yellow-green
where
you lifted—turned the earth-side
to the
light:
this and
a dead leaf-spine,
split
across,
show
where you passed.
You were
swift, swift!
here the
forest ledge slopes—
rain has
furrowed the roots.
Your
hand caught at this;
the root
snapped under your weight.
I can
almost follow the note
where it
touched this slender tree
and the
next answered—
and the
next.
And you
climbed yet further!
you
stopped by the dwarf-cornel—
whirled
on your heels,
doubled
on your track.
This is
clear—
you fell
on the downward slope,
you
dragged a bruised thigh—you limped—
you
clutched this larch.
Did your
head, bent back,
search
further—
clear
through the green leaf-moss
of the
larch branches?
Did you
clutch,
stammer
with short breath and gasp:
wood-daemons
grant life—
give
life—I am almost lost.
For some
wood-daemon
has
lightened your steps.
I can
find no trace of you
in the
larch-cones and the underbrush.
The
Mysteries Remain
The
mysteries remain,
I keep
the same
cycle of
seed-time
and of
sun and rain;
Demeter
in the grass,
I
multiply,
renew
and bless
Bacchus
in the vine;
I hold
the law,
I keep
the mysteries true,
the
first of these
to name
the living, dead;
I am the
wine and bread.
I keep
the law,
I hold
the mysteries true,
I am the
vine,
the
branches, you
and you.
Cassandra
O Hymen king.
Hymen, O Hymen
king,
what
bitter thing is this?
what
shaft, tearing my heart?
what
scar, what light, what fire
searing
my eye-balls and my eyes with flame?
nameless,
O spoken name,
king, lord,
speak blameless Hymen.
Why do
you blind my eyes?
why do
you dart and pulse
till all
the dark is home,
then
find my soul
and
ruthless draw it back?
scaling
the scaleless,
opening
the dark?
speak,
nameless, power and might;
when
will you leave me quite?
when
will you break my wings
or leave
them utterly free
to scale
heaven endlessly?
A
bitter, broken thing,
my
heart, O Hymen lord,
yet
neither drought nor sword
baffles
men quite,
why must
they feign to fear
my
virgin glance?
feigned
utterly or real
why do
they shrink?
my
trance frightens them,
breaks
the dance,
empties
the market-place;
if I but
pass they fall
back,
frantically;
must
always people mock?
unless
they shrink and reel
as in
the temple
at your
uttered will.
O Hymen
king,
lord,
greatest, power, might,
look for
my face is dark,
burnt
with your light,
your
fire, O Hymen lord;
is there
none left
can
equal me
in
ecstasy, desire?
is there
none left
can bear
with me
the kiss
of your white fire?
is there
not one,
Phrygian
or frenzied Greek,
poet, song-swept,
or bard,
one meet
to take from me
this
bitter power of song,
one fit
to speak, Hymen,
your
praises, lord?
May I
not wed
as you
have wed?
may it
not break, beauty,
from out
my hands, my head, my feet?
may Love
not lie beside me
till his
heat
burn me
to ash?
may he
not comfort me, then,
spent of
all that fire and heat,
still,
ashen-white and cool
as the
wet laurels,
white,
before your feet
step on
the mountain-slope,
before
your fiery hand
lift up
the mantle
covering
flower and land,
as a man
lifts,
O Hymen,
from his bride,
(cowering
with woman eyes,) the veil?
O Hymen
lord, be kind.
Helen
All
Greece hates
the
still eyes in the white face,
the
lustre as of olives
where
she stands,
and the
white hands.
All
Greece reviles
the wan
face when she smiles,
hating
it deeper still
when it
grows wan and white,
remembering
past enchantments
and past
ills.
Greece
sees unmoved,
God’s
daughter, born of love,
the
beauty of cool feet
and
slenderest knees,
could
love indeed the maid,
only if
she were laid,
white
ash amid funereal cypresses.
Eurydice
I
So you
have swept me back,
I who
could have walked with the live souls
above
the earth,
I who
could have slept among the live flowers
at last;
so for
your arrogance
and your
ruthlessness
I am
swept back
where
dead lichens drip
dead
cinders upon moss of ash;
so for
your arrogance
I am
broken at last,
I who
had lived unconscious,
who was
almost forgot;
if you
had let me wait
I had
grown from listlessness
into peace,
if you
had let me rest with the dead,
I had
forgot you
and the
past.
II
Here
only flame upon flame
and
black among the red sparks,
streaks
of black and light
grown
colourless;
why did
you turn back,
that
hell should be reinhabited
of
myself thus
swept
into nothingness?
why did
you glance back?
why did
you hesitate for that moment?
why did
you bend your face
caught
with the flame of the upper earth,
above my
face?
what was
it that crossed my face
with the
light from yours
and your
glance?
what was
it you saw in my face?
the
light of your own face,
the fire
of your own presence?
What had
my face to offer
but
reflex of the earth,
hyacinth
colour
caught
from the raw fissure in the rock
where
the light struck,
and the
colour of azure crocuses
and the
bright surface of gold crocuses
and of
the wind-flower,
swift in
its veins as lightning
and as
white.
III
Saffron
from the fringe of the earth,
wild
saffron that has bent
over the
sharp edge of earth,
all the
flowers that cut through the earth,
all, all
the flowers are lost;
everything
is lost,
everything
is crossed with black,
black
upon black
and
worse than black,
this
colourless light.
IV
Fringe
upon fringe
of blue
crocuses,
crocuses,
walled against blue of themselves,
blue of
that upper earth,
blue of
the depth upon depth of flowers,
lost;
flowers,
if I
could have taken once my breath of them,
enough
of them,
more
than earth,
even
than of the upper earth,
had
passed with me
beneath
the earth;
if I
could have caught up from the earth,
the
whole of the flowers of the earth,
if once
I could have breathed into myself
the very
golden crocuses
and the
red,
and the
very golden hearts of the first saffron,
the
whole of the golden mass,
the
whole of the great fragrance,
I could
have dared the loss.
V
So for
your arrogance
and your
ruthlessness
I have
lost the earth
and the
flowers of the earth,
and the
live souls above the earth,
and you
who passed across the light
and
reached
ruthless;
you who
have your own light,
who are
to yourself a presence,
who need
no presence;
yet for
all your arrogance
and your
glance,
I tell
you this:
such
loss is no loss,
such
terror, such coils and strands and pitfalls
of
blackness,
such
terror
is no
loss;
hell is
no worse than your earth
above
the earth,
hell is
no worse,
no, nor
your flowers
nor your
veins of light
nor your
presence,
a loss;
my hell
is no worse than yours
though
you pass among the flowers and speak
with the
spirits above earth.
VI
Against
the black
I have
more fervour
than you
in all the splendour of that place,
against
the blackness
and the
stark grey
I have
more light;
and the
flowers,
if I
should tell you,
you
would turn from your own fit paths
toward
hell,
turn
again and glance back
and I
would sink into a place
even
more terrible than this.
VII
At least
I have the flowers of myself,
and my
thoughts, no god
can take
that;
I have
the fervour of myself for a presence
and my
own spirit for light;
and my
spirit with its loss
knows
this;
though
small against the black,
small
against the formless rocks,
hell
must break before I am lost;
before I
am lost,
hell
must open like a red rose
for the
dead to pass.
Islands
I.
What are
the islands to me,
what is
Greece,
what is
Rhodes, Samos, Chios,
what is
Paros facing west,
what is
Crete?
What is
Samothrace,
rising
like a ship,
what is
Imbros rending the storm-waves
with its
breast?
What is
Naxos, Paros, Milos,
what the
circle about Lycia,
what,
the Cyclades’
white
necklace?
What is
Greece –
Sparta,
rising like a rock,
Thebes,
Athens, W
what is
Corinth?
What is
Euboia
with its
island violets,
what is
Euboia, spread with grass,
set with
swift shoals,
what is
Crete?
What are
the islands to me,
what is
Greece?
II.
What can
love of land give to me
that you
have not –
what do
the tall Spartans know,
and gentler
Attic folk?
What has
Sparta and her women
more
than this?
What are
the islands to me
if you
are lost –
what is
Naxos, Tinos, Andros,
and
Delos, the clasp
of the
white necklace?
III.
What can
love of land give to me
that you
have not,
what can
love of strife break in me
that you
have not?
Though
Sparta enter Athens,
Thebes
wrack Sparta,
each
changes as water,
salt,
rising to wreak terror
and fall
back.
IV.
“What
has love of land given to you
that I
have not?”
I have
questioned Tyrians
where
they sat
on the
black ships,
weighted
with rich stuffs,
I have
asked the Greeks
from the
white ships,
and
Greeks from ships whose hulks
lay on
the wet sand, scarlet
with
great beaks.
I have
asked bright Tyrians
and tall
Greeks –
“what
has love of land given you?”
And they
answered – “peace.”
V.
But
beauty is set apart,
beauty
is cast by the sea,
a barren
rock,
beauty
is set about
with
wrecks of ships,
upon our
coast, death keeps
the
shallows – death waits
clutching
toward us
from the
deeps.
Beauty
is set apart;
the
winds that slash its beach,
swirl
the coarse sand
upward
toward the rocks.
Beauty
is set apart
from the
islands
and from
Greece.
VI.
In my
garden
the
winds have beaten
the ripe
lilies;
in my
garden, the salt
has
wilted the first flakes
of young
narcissus,
and the
lesser hyacinth,
and the
salt has crept
under
the leaves of the white hyacinth.
In my
garden
even the
wind-flowers lie flat,
broken
by the wind at last.
VII.
What are
the islands to me
if you
are lost,
what is
Paros to me
if your
eyes draw back,
what is
Milos
if you
take fright of beauty,
terrible,
torturous, isolate,
a barren rock.
What is
Rhodes, Crete,
what is
Paros facing west,
what,
white Imbros?
What are
the islands to me
if you
hesitate,
what is
Greece if you draw back
from the
terror
and cold
splendour of song
and its
bleak sacrifice?
Cities
Can we
believe -- by an effort
comfort
our hearts:
it is
not waste all this,
not
placed here in disgust,
street
after street,
each
patterned alike,
no grace
to lighten
a single
house of the hundred
crowded
into one garden-space.
Crowded
-- can we believe,
not in
utter disgust,
in
ironical play --
but the
maker of cities grew faint
with the
beauty of temple
and
space before temple,
arch
upon perfect arch,
of
pillars and corridors that led out
to
strange court-yards and porches
where
sun-light stamped
hyacinth-shadows
black on
the pavement.
That the
maker of cities grew faint
with the
splendour of palaces,
paused
while the incense-flowers
from the
incense-trees
dropped
on the marble-walk,
thought
anew, fashioned this --
street
after street alike.
For
alas,
he had
crowded the city so full
that men
could not grasp beauty,
beauty
was over them,
through
them, about them,
no
crevice unpacked with the honey,
rare,
measureless.
So he
built a new city,
ah can
we believe, not ironically
but for
new splendour
constructed
new people
to lift
through slow growth
to a
beauty unrivalled yet --
and
created new cells,
hideous
first, hideous now --
spread
larvae across them,
not
honey but seething life.
And in
these dark cells,
packed
street after street,
souls
live, hideous yet --
O
disfigured, defaced,
with no
trace of the beauty
men once
held so light.
Can we
think a few old cells
were
left -- we are left --
grains
of honey,
old dust
of stray pollen
dull on
our torn wings,
we are
left to recall the old streets?
Is our
task the less sweet
that the
larvae still sleep in their cells?
Or crawl
out to attack our frail strength:
You are
useless. We live.
We await
great events.
We are
spread through this earth.
We
protect our strong race.
You are
useless.
Your
cell takes the place
of our
young future strength.
Though
they sleep or wake to torment
and wish
to displace our old cells --
thin
rare gold --
that
their larvae grow fat --
is our
task the less sweet?
Though
we wander about,
find no
honey of flowers in this waste,
is our
task the less sweet --
who
recall the old splendour,
await
the new beauty of cities?
The city
is peopled
with
spirits, not ghosts, O my love:
Though
they crowded between
and usurped
the kiss of my mouth
their
breath was your gift,
their
beauty, your life.
At Baia
I should
have thought
in a
dream you would have brought
some
lovely, perilous thing,
orchids
piled in a great sheath,
as who
would say (in a dream),
"I
send you this,
who left
the blue veins
of your
throat unkissed."
Why was
it that your hands
(that
never took mine),
your
hands that I could see
drift
over the orchid-heads
so
carefully,
your
hands, so fragile, sure to lift
so
gently, the fragile flower-stuff--
ah, ah,
how was it
You
never sent (in a dream)
the very
form, the very scent,
not
heavy, not sensuous,
but
perilous--perilous--
of
orchids, piled in a great sheath,
and
folded underneath on a bright scroll,
some
word:
"Flower
sent to flower;
for
white hands, the lesser white,
less
lovely of flower-leaf,"
or
"Lover
to lover, no kiss,
no
touch, but forever and ever this."
Biography
Hilda
Doolittle, known by her initials H.D., was an American avant-garde poet and
novelist. Her innovative and experimental work spanned five decades, and
although she was primarily known as a poet, H.D. also wrote novels, memoirs and
essays. She is best-known for her association with the Imagist movement, a
pre-World War One poetic movement which championed clear, concise imagery and
economic use of language.
Born in
Bethlehem, Pennsylvania in 1886, H.D. was the only daughter in a family of five
sons. In 1901, when she was fifteen, she met the poet and critic Ezra Pound who
would later become instrumental in building her career. Although H.D. attended
Bryn Mawr College, where she met poets Marianne Moore and William Carlos
Williams, she dropped out before the end of her first year.
H.D.
moved to London in 1911, and would remain in Europe until her death in 1961.
During her early years in London, Pound introduced H.D. to a community of
writers, which consisted of artists such as Yeats, Eliot, Ford Madox Ford and
Wyndham Lewis.
In 1912,
Imagism, the short-lived but highly influential literary movement which H.D.
was a key part of, was launched in the tea shop of the British Museum. The
Imagists rejected the sentimentality of Romanticism, but focused on writing
poetry using direct language and non-traditional verse forms. The Imagists were
also influenced by the intellectual climate of the early 20th century, and so
their work was informed by Freud’s psychoanalytic theories (coincidentally,
H.D. would undergo treatment with Freud later in her life), the visual art of
post-Impressionism and Cubism, and the philosophy of Henri Bergson.
In the
early days of Imagism, H.D. wrote Priapus and Hermes of the Ways. When Pound
read them, he declared ‘this is poetry’ and christened Doolittle, H.D. In 1916,
H.D.’s first collection of poetry, Sea Garden, was published. Also around this
time, she became part of the editorial team at Egoist, a London-based literary
magazine.
Whilst
following the Imagist ethos, H.D.’s poetry also drew inspiration from classical
civilization, but critically appraised it with a feminist lens. This is most
obvious in H.D.’s poems Helen, Leda and Cassandra, which all give a conscious
voice to the eponymous women but also critique their position in a patriarchal
world. These themes become united in H.D.’s final poetry collection Helen in
Egypt, which was written between 1952 – 54 and published in 1961. In Helen in
Egypt, H.D. recentres the classic Greek epic narrative on the interior and
emotional life of Helen of Troy.
In
addition to being a prolific poet, H.D. wrote huge amounts of fiction in her
lifetime. HERmione, HD’s most famous novel, is heavily influenced by the
author’s experiences and explores same-sex desire and female creativity.
Although written in 1927, HERmione wasn’t published until 1981. A number of
H.D.’s novels, including Majic Ring, Pilate’s Wife, The Sword Went Out to Sea,
White Rose and the Red and The Mystery, were all published after her death.
H.D. had
relationships with men and women throughout her life, and her bisexuality was a
topic she explored in her poetry and discussed extensively in her sessions with
Freud. In 1907, she became engaged to Ezra Pound, but their engagement was
called off in 1908, in part due to the continual opposition of H.D.’s family.
While
studying at the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts, H.D. was in a relationship
with Frances Gregg. The pair sailed to Europe together, where H.D. met, and
married, fellow Imagist poet Richard Aldington. During the war, H.D. and
Aldington’s relationship deteriorated; H.D. had an affair with music historian
Cecil Gray and developed a close friendship with D.H. Lawrence. At the end of
the war, H.D. met lesbian novelist and editor, Bryher, and although the pair
would continue to have other lovers, they remained in a relationship until
H.D.’s death.
In 1960,
H.D. travelled to America to accept the American Academy of Arts and Letters
medal – she was the first woman to be awarded the honour – and died in
Switzerland a year later. H.D.’s work was rediscovered by second-wave feminists
of the 1970s, who were interested in questioning gender roles and were
searching for a less androcentric literary tradition. As a result, much of her
work was published and re-issued after her death by the prestigious publisher
of avant-garde work, New Directions.
More
poems and an essay on her work here:
On her role in Imagism :
HD in
London: When Imagism arrived. By Billy Mills. The Guardian , May 5, 2011.
More biographical notes :
#BornThisDay:
Mad Poets Society, Bisexual Poet”H.D.” and Her Circle. By Stephen
Rutledge. The WoW Report, September 10,
2019.
On her relationship
with Bryher :
H.D. and
Bryher: a modernist love-story. By Susan McCabe. ? , Art Cornwall Org
On the
film Borderline :
Strangers
In The Village? On ‘Borderline’ And Belonging. By Ellie Jones. Another Gaze , April 7, 2016.
On meeting Sigmund Freud :
Fun with
Freud. By Dan Piepenbring. The Paris Review , September 10, 2015.
Further
information :
Her page
on Imagists
No comments:
Post a Comment